{Chapter: 47: The Crown And The Cross And Ciel With His Intellect}
"A thousand years of history," he whispered to no one. "And not once has this land known true peace."
Marton was a kingdom of stone and gold—enduring, proud, but riddled with rot. Beneath the gleaming towers and noble courts lay a network of corruption and hidden rivalries. The royal family itself had not been spared. Cousins with ancient claims, barons with foreign allegiances, merchant dynasties rooted in decades of silent rebellion—there was no shortage of daggers aimed at his back.
"When Father died," James murmured, "I had no idea I was inheriting a kingdom made of paper and poison."
The throne was not a gift; it was a burden. The aristocracy, bloated with old privilege, refused to bend. The military was loyal, but fragmented. The merchant houses moved like shadows across the borders, loyal only to coins. If he let things continue as they were, the nation would devour itself from within.
"You cannot treat disease by feeding it," he muttered. "And you cannot cut flesh without drawing blood."
He understood what needed to be done. But cutting into the rot required precision. Caution. Strategy. If he moved too early, the noble houses would unite in self-preservation. If he moved too late, the rot would reach the bones of the kingdom. His mind churned with contingency plans, secret alliances, and the placement of loyal agents within the court.
But then—
Knock. Knock.
A soft rapping on the chamber door drew him from his thoughts.
"Your Highness," came a maid's voice through the wood, "Lord Ciel has arrived, bearing a token of gratitude."
James blinked once, then smiled faintly.
"Ciel? Ah… Send him in."
To the world, Ciel was a mild-mannered nobleman—one of hundreds whose family had pledged quiet loyalty to the crown. But in truth, Ciel was an identity carefully constructed—flawlessly sculpted by royal informants and layered with enough falsified records to fool even the most suspicious bishop.
In truth, he was Salt—a powerful sorcerer whose arcane gifts had once saved the king's life during a forbidden incident no one was supposed to know about.
Dex, the Abyssal sorcerer who had landed in Marton's territory through unknown means, had nearly slain James and the Baron Duke on their arrival. It was Salt who had intervened, using two precious tokens from Dex to redirect the danger. Without that intervention, James would have died before even setting foot on the throne.
The king owed him a debt.
And in the world of kings and demons, debts were dangerous things.
A moment later, a tall man in his forties stepped into the chamber. His dark robes bore the subtle signs of enchantment—stitching that shimmered faintly when caught by candlelight. His expression was calm, unreadable, with the poise of someone who had once faced the void and survived.
James gestured to the seat beside him. "Salt," he said with a rare, genuine smile. "It's been too long."
"Indeed," Salt replied, seating himself without hesitation. "I would've come sooner, but someone insisted I rest after the last spell nearly tore my bones apart."
James chuckled. "I insisted because I wasn't ready to lose you. Especially not after everything you've done for me."
Salt glanced at the map on the table. "I hear the Church is moving in. Interesting times ahead."
James's smile faded.
"Yes," he said quietly. "And we'll need every ally we can find."
Salt leaned back, thoughtful. "Then it's a good thing you've kept my name clean. I imagine the Church wouldn't be thrilled to know the man who saved their future archduke once summoned a creature from the Deep Void."
James smirked. "And that's exactly why you're here under a new name, with clean robes and a clean record."
Salt's eyes flicked toward the candle again.
"Just remember, James... the Church plays a long game. And so do demons. Be careful where you light your fires."
"I intend to," the king murmured, his voice low. "But I'm not afraid to burn a little if it keeps the kingdom alive."
And so, as the shadows lengthened across the marble floors of the royal palace, two men—one king, one sorcerer—sat side by side, preparing for the days to come.
The kingdom would soon become a crucible.
And only those willing to wield fire would survive it.
After he sat down, James leaned back slightly on his couch, fingers steepled under his chin, and his sharp eyes examined the man seated across from him. Though the expression on his face was calm, curiosity sparked in his gaze like flickering candlelight.
He studied every detail—the finer lines at the corner of the eyes, the more refined jawline, the broader shoulders, the way this man carried himself. It was hard to believe this was once the same cunning and shadow-dwelling sorcerer known as Salt.
James finally let out a low breath, lips curling into an amused smile. "What a remarkable transformation," he said, voice tinged with admiration. "It's as if you've been reborn entirely. That spell of yours… It can alter not only your appearance but even the subtle gestures, your posture, your presence. If it weren't for the fact that your voice still carries the same undertone, I might not have believed you were the same man."
Ciel—formerly Salt—smiled, his expression relaxed yet confident. There was a certain ease to him now, a calm that hadn't been there before. "It's not just a spell," he said, his voice thoughtful. "It's a form of metamorphosis, drawn from the deepest layers of identity. I learned it from a fragmented manuscript found in the ruins of an abandoned temple hidden beneath the Ashen Cliffs. The knowledge was nearly lost. Few can master it, and fewer still can survive the process."
He leaned back, fingers brushing his dark cloak aside as he relaxed into the ornate seat. "It demands more than just mana. It demands self-erasure. You have to let go of the person you were to become someone entirely new."
James reached for a silver decanter on the side table and poured two glasses of wine. The ruby-red liquid shimmered under the soft candlelight, casting ripples across the surface of the polished table. He handed one glass to Ciel, keeping one for himself.
He raised the glass slightly. "To reinvention," he said with a smile.
Ciel chuckled softly. "To survival."
They clinked glasses, the crystal ringing out like a bell in the quiet chamber, and both men took a slow sip.
The wine was vintage from the western vineyards of Eldrelle—rich, smoky, with a faint aftertaste of ash and plum. James gently swirled the glass and watched the crimson liquid curl and shimmer like blood under moonlight. "You've changed, Ciel," he said at last. "Not just your face… You carry yourself differently. Your tone is lighter, your energy calmer. The darkness that once clung to you like a second skin… it's gone. It's as if Salt was buried in that ruined prison, and you emerged in his place."
Ciel's gaze drifted toward the stained-glass windows on the far side of the room, where beams of colored light painted strange patterns on the floor. For a moment, his eyes grew distant. "People evolve," he said quietly. "Sometimes they're broken down first. Sometimes it takes staring death in the face. The name Ciel… I like it. It reminds me of the sky. Of something infinite."
James smiled slightly. "I'm glad. I chose it because it sounded clean—free. Not burdened by blood rituals and sources and curses."
"Exactly," Ciel said. "Salt was a man chained by his pride. He believed knowledge made him untouchable. That was until Dex arrived."
At the mention of that name, an invisible weight entered the room. The fire in the hearth seemed to crackle louder, shadows shifting subtly in response.
James lowered his glass. "Dex…" he echoed. "You've mentioned him before. But only in passing. I want to know more. What did you feel when you saw him? What kind of creature is he really?"
Ciel hesitated for a long moment. The name alone carried an echo of dread, as if speaking it too often might summon something ancient and malevolent—Him.
He finally spoke, his tone low and thoughtful. "He was like… a rift. A fracture in reality. Imagine a room suddenly turning silent, not because sound died, but because something deeper—more primal—told every practical around you to hush. That's what Dex was. He didn't even need to speak. Just standing near him made the very air feel thick with despair and awe."
James leaned forward slightly, expression unreadable. "So, it wasn't just fear."
"No," Ciel said. "It was reverence... terror... submission. And not the kind you choose. It was instinctual. I couldn't cast a single spell. I, Salt the Arcanist, breaker of runes, master of ten circles… I was a child holding a toy sword, standing before a dragon the size of a mountain. I couldn't move. I couldn't even speak."
He paused, swallowed, then looked James directly in the eye.
"If you're even considering using force against Dex… don't. Abandon the thought entirely. He is not a man, nor even a monster. He is something worse—something eternal."
James exhaled slowly, his mind spinning. "You say that… but do you have any idea how powerful he is? Can you quantify it in any way?"
Ciel rubbed his chin, his fingers trembling slightly. "When the summoning went wrong and Dex arrived... something in the air collapsed. I felt a brief link between our minds, just a flicker. And in that flicker, I saw cities crumbling beneath a black sky. I saw a mountain melting into ash. I saw angels weeping. That was the depth of his power. It's like asking a shadow to compare itself to the sun. So I could vaguely feel his power at that time. It was beyond the reach of humans of this era. The gap between humans and him is like that between beasts and ants; there is no actual comparison…"
Silence fell over the chamber.
For a long while, the only sound was the faint ticking of the clock and the distant murmur of wind against the glass.
Then James rose to his feet, placing his wine glass down with a soft clink.
He walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out over the moonlit rooftops of the capital. His kingdom, sprawling and old, glittered under the starlit sky. Somewhere out there, forces far older and darker than he could understand were moving.
And yet… he could not afford to retreat. Not now.
"I thank you for your honesty, Ciel," he said quietly. "And I will take your warning seriously. But whether we like it or not, beings like Dex are already here. We don't get to choose when they arrive. We only choose how to respond."
Behind him, Ciel stood as well and gave a faint, tired smile. "Then choose carefully, Your Highness. Because some responses cannot be undone."